Future Sight
by Raid and Ruins
Summary: AU. Thirty years after the defeat of the homunculi, Roy Mustang wakes up. **SPOILERS FOR MANGA CHAPTER 102**


_This AU fanfic takes place after manga chapter 102. Spoilers.  
__Fullmetal Alchemist © Arakawa Hiromu_

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**FUTURE SIGHT  
**by Raid and Ruins

Roy Mustang wakes up every morning to cool air and soft chirping drifting from the open window. He can feel by the temperature the hour of day; currently, it is the seventh hour, and he is on time.

He rises slowly, but steadily. He is sixty now, and so he must be careful with his movements. The floor is cold under his bare feet, but it is solid and soothing, as are all foundations in his life. A smile turns his lips. With confidence, he stands and approaches the open window. Aged hands reach out and find the familiar smooth paneling of the windowsill.

There comes a knock on the door, from across the room. "Enter," he commands without turning. His voice slices through the morning calm like a knife.

Light footsteps follow the creak of the door. Without looking, Roy can tell who it is: Major Hawkeye's approach is always deliberate but soft, and she always knocks twice. She halts in the center of the bedchamber, her heels coming sharply together, and there is a swift rustle of fabric as she salutes.

"Sir."

Her voice is solid too. Though she has also aged, it seems to him that she has not changed at all. Her voice, her movements, and her dedication have not wavered, and perhaps, he muses, they have only strengthened over the course of time.

"Major," he responds in greeting, finally acknowledging her presence by facing her. His smile widens. "Good morning."

"Good morning to you, sir." A pause. "Breakfast is ready if you are. The maid has arranged your clothes as usual in the bathroom."

He nods once. "Thank you."

"I have brought the morning paper."

Roy makes his way to the adjoining bathroom, noting when the stone turns into ceramic tiles. He finds the tub easily enough, disrobes, and, gripping the edge with surety, lowers himself into the steaming water. Finally situated, he turns his full attention to his assistant.

"What's the news for today?"

He closes his eyes as paper rustles from the adjacent room. Hawkeye begins to read, her tone utterly neutral and not biased towards any one article. The man absorbs her words as he begins to bathe, tuning out all sounds but the calmness of her words. She pauses after every article, indicating the end, but she does not wait for him to comment before she continues onto the next one. Instead, he listens intently, interrupting her only with splashes of water as he moves.

He finishes when she finishes. She folds the paper up, and he drains the tub. Once the water is all gone, he stands, grabs the towel placed within arm's length, and carefully dries himself. Wrapping it around his waist and holding it securely with one hand, he holds the other out in the direction of Hawkeye's voice.

"Major."

Almost immediately, a smaller hand grabs his own. It's solid too, strong from years of physical work, from hardships, from trust.

Roy steps out of the tub. The hand withdraws, and he waits until the boots have left the room's tiled floor before he begins to dress. The trousers and belt come first, then the undershirt, and then the coat. He has worn this coat every day of his life since he was thirty; its buttons and snaps do not elude his gnarling fingers.

Finally, he slips into his boots and into a pair of cotton gloves. With a finger, he rubs the back of one of them, and satisfied to find it smooth, steps out of the bathroom.

"To breakfast, then," he says cheerily to Hawkeye, who hands him his cane. He thanks her with a nod, then proceeds towards the hallway without a dip in his stride. She follows at an easy pace.

Breakfast is a short affair: pancakes and fruit. He has learned what ingredients have been used from flavor alone and swears that he could retire and become a cook if he so pleased. But when the meal and the joking are done, he rises and makes his way to his office several floors above, where he has lived for the past thirty years. The air is no longer cool but has begun to warm with the rise of the sun, and the wood of his desk and chair are comfortably heated.

It is not long before he hears the first knock. He allows entrance, and an uncommon but familiar shuffling—two pairs of feet this time—cross his threshold.

Roy smiles. "Edward, Alphonse. Fancy seeing you here."

Edward can't help but return the smile. The older man is not quite looking at their faces, but his ghostly eyes are still focused intently in their direction.

"Plans change, Mister President. You of all people should know."


End file.
